


An Oath Reforged

by Crisis_Project



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Addiction, Character Study, Cullen Has Issues, Implied/Referenced Torture, Lyrium, Rape/Non-con Elements, Templars, cullen won't be doing that shit though, guys this is kirkwall, if that is any consolation, nor will any of the non-con or torture be described in any detail, we all know that the gallows was pretty horrific
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-01
Updated: 2018-08-30
Packaged: 2019-06-19 23:59:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15521589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crisis_Project/pseuds/Crisis_Project
Summary: A character study of Cullen Rutherford from when he steps off the ship on the docks of Kirkwall to departing the ravaged city a year after the Chantry was destroyed.





	1. Flaming Sword

Kirkwall seemed to slide out of the greys and blues shrouding the horizon of the Waking Sea, cradling the murky waters in its glimmering port and backed by the Vimmark mountain range. Cullen was no expert in naval warfare, but from his recent reading he could tell that the city-state had formidable defenses. He tried not to gawk at the enormous chains that stretched from the port mouth to the fortress island outposts, hanging ominously over the ship as they glided underneath. Each link was almost as large as a sail and must have been magically fashioned with a boatful of metal poured into each link. Surely that gold could have gone to better causes, but who was he to argue with dead Tevinter magisters? Even more costly were the two identical brass statues hung on each side of the port mouth; instead of guarding the city, each weathered behemoth hid their face in their hands, their necks weighed down by a collar and chains.

Supposedly, the Twins and the city itself had been constructed by ancient Tevinters, a major hub in the bloodthirsty nation's slave trade. As the ship slid closer, the details of the statues sharpened through the briney mist. The Tevinter craftsmen had been skilled; though the Twins' faces were hidden, their bodies curling inward as if to shield themselves, their foreheads were furled in sorrow, tendons pulled taut in agony under their skin. He could almost see them flinching back, hiding behind their hands as they screamed and begged him to _stop_ -

A spray of salty water slapped him in the face and snapped Cullen out of his thoughts. Shaking, he swiped the water out of his eyes and his beard, sucked in a deep breath and eased out of the defense stance he had fallen into. Gripping the railing until his knuckles ached, he glared at the Twins as the ship slowly sailed between them into the noisy port. He wasn’t here to spiral again; he was here to start over.

Focusing on the Twins' slave collars instead, Cullen made himself recall every detail of the city's history from the book he'd brought with him from Greenfell. The story goes that the slaves in ancient Tevinter had been slaughtered en masse in Kirkwall for many years until one day, the slaves had revolted. Those crushed under magic for so long had gathered, disciplined themselves, formed militias and killed their magister overlords until magical and mundane blood had mingled in the burning streets. The people had freed themselves of corruptive political power and the curse of magic, and reclaimed their home until it became the independent city state it was today.

Knight-Commander Meredith's invitation to transfer to the Kirkwall Circle was tucked into Cullen's waist-pouch, but he could see the city's heraldry embossed across the top of the parchment clearly in his mind. A stylized dragon set against a dark background, symbolizing the spirit of the slave rebellion centuries ago. _Supposedly_. Cullen saw a sword instead, winged in Andraste's cleansing flames. From what Knight-Commander Meredith had detailed in her letters, this city and Circle was in sore need of it. There was worthy work to be done here instead of wasting away in Greenfell surrounded by broken mirrors and whispers of the dead. Greagoir was an old fool to bend the rules, to allow mages to run amok without enough supervision or walk the Fade longer than the time allotted to them. It was only a matter of time until each mage would become a door for a demon and repeat the massacre that had stained the halls of Kinloch Tower during the Fifth Blight.

As the ship sailed between the Twins into the port proper, Cullen promised himself that this would not be like the Tower. Or Greenfell. He would pledge himself to Knight-Commander Meredith and be a cleansing sword in this city. Kirkwall was a fresh start.


	2. The Gallows

Knight-Commander Meredith was like no one Cullen had ever met and everything he had hoped that she would be.

His first impression of Meredith Stannard was that one of those statues holding aloft a sword and the scales of Justice had been brought to life. Tall and statuesque, she did not need to wear greaves to show that she ruled the Gallows with an iron fist. Cullen could read the discipline in every line of the Gallows Circle, in every step of its residents, both mage and templar. Whenever she entered a room, the templars straightened and saluted her. The mages were docile, continuing their studies quietly. No one dared to practice battle magic even in the reinforced gymnasium, which was dusty with disuse. No apprentices turned up where they shouldn’t be sporting horns or green boils or whatever ‘fun’ magic they had discovered and dared each other to try. Everyone obeyed curfew and his nightly patrols were calm and quiet. He never saw her raise her voice or publicly discipline anyone; it was unnecessary. She was the center of the Gallows, and it orbited around her.

She even wore the Chantry hood and diadem that each Knight-Commander had the right to wear. The weight of responsibility, justice, and the duty to uphold the Chantry’s teachings in the Circle weighed on her fair brows. The design was simple, but echoed a crown just enough to remind every mage and templar in the Gallows that the Knight-Commander represented the people; that magic existed to serve man, and never to rule over him.

He had only caught glimpses of her during briefings since she was frequently busy with her many duties.She seemed to be everywhere, her mark stamped clearly in the Gallows, the Chantry, in the orderliness of Hightown, and in the new budgets and protocols that trickled down from the Viscount. Where Greagoir had naval gazed in the Tower and poorly enforced duties, Meredith was everywhere and kept the Gallows running with tight efficiency.

The mages in the Gallows did not seem to appreciate all of her hard work. Beneath the almost tranquil veneer of stoicism, he could read their nervousness and resentment.

Their eyes followed each templar when they thought they weren’t being watched; the flash of teeth as they sneered was smoothly replaced with a neutral mask in a blink. Cullen purposefully posted himself nearby groups of malcontents until they scuttled away, knowing that he could see their plotting and read the guilt in their hunched retreating figures. These mages truly did not know how good they had it; they hadn’t tasted a demon deal gone sour thanks to the Knight-Commander and her firm hand. He would not allow them to ruin this sanctuary.

Cullen settled into the Gallows with zeal. The best that he had hoped for was a Circle slightly better than the Tower; he hadn’t expected to feel so light-hearted and at home within a Circle again. He even had a companionable roommate, a templar named Raleigh Samson. He felt at home here, and he could see himself serving the Maker in these halls for the rest of his career. He had Meredith to thank for that.

One of his duties was to rotate through Harrowing shifts along with the other templars. They were held in the Harrowing chamber, a large stone room in the basement level of the Gallows. Just past it was a small morgue, and adjacent to it were the cells, curiously full each time he patrolled the basement. The dungeon was accessed further past these cells and reserved for the most heinous of crimes; only those ranked Knight-Lieutenants or higher were assigned those patrols. Surely, it was a light duty; very few mages would risk murder or blood magic with Meredith around.

What bothered him were the number of apprentices who would fail their Harrowing. The Tower had performed a few Harrowings a month depending on the number of apprentices who were deemed ready by the senior enchanters. The Gallows ran a few Harrowings a week no matter how ready the apprentice seemed.

There were more young Tranquil quietly filling in administrative and rote work than he was used to seeing, but he reminded himself that it was far better to see more Tranquil than to see more abominations. Still, it was unnerving to see blank-eyed thirteen year olds quietly drifting through the halls on errands, the Chantry sun burned angrily into their foreheads. He tried to ignore how his guts clenched whenever he passed one of them - they were far too small, their shoulders slight under their robes as they quietly carried books and papers. Watching young apprentices either shrink away from the Tranquil children (they  _were_  children, there was no denying that) or try to play with them hit his heart harder than he had expected.

Cullen had had to stop himself from rudely questioning a nearby Knight-Corporal when he’d first seen a child Tranquil. There must be a good reason. Knight-Commander Meredith was running a tight ship here.

It was always better to see more tranquil than abominations.

That phrase became a mantra that churned through his head every time a Harrowing went wrong. After the second failed Harrowing of the week, Cullen slumped out of the chamber, tired to the bone and furious. He had warned the Knight-Lieutenant that no apprentice should be given the leniency to extend their Harrowing past the hour limit. Bending the rules allowed for demons to tempt those cursed with magic with tantalizing promises, gave them time to pierce the Veil so an abomination erupted in their place, the body of the apprentice shredding around it.

Seeing the light of desperation in an apostate’s eyes go out always wrenched the air from his lungs. He knew what came next.  It didn’t matter if the apostate were a human, an elf, or a Qunari - no matter if they had been crying, screaming, or gloating, they would all invariably look the same in the following instant. No matter how many times he witnessed it, seeing their expression shift from vividly alive to inhumanly vacant as they turned inwards, reached through the Fade and made a deal with a demon suffused his veins with ice. Skin would balloon, suppurate and shred as an abomination erupted from what had once been a person. No matter how many times he saw that instantaneous death and mutilated rebirth, Cullen would always feel the horror flash-freeze his soul.

It hadn’t helped that the Knight-Lieutenant had been lazy and just fastened the apprentice to the slab by their wrists and ankles. The leather cuffs may as well have been ropes of soft cheese as the demon tore through them and flipped the slab at the surrounding templars, crushing the Lieutenant and two others in a breath.

Cullen had charged with the remaining templars. He had dodged its razor claws and swung his sword, the mantra evaporating from his head when the demon stared straight into his eyes. Its slit pupils had widened in that fraction of a second and it had grinned at him almost knowingly.

No.

He’d slammed it with the strongest Silence he could muster, calling on the lyrium in his veins to thicken the air and sever the demon’s ties to the Fade. He couldn’t allow it to wear his face again,  _he would not let it-_

The rest of the battle had been a blur.


End file.
